Sentiment
by A Girl Named Logan
Summary: John is unable to babysit Sherlock all the time now he has a little one, and makes Sherlock get a flat mate. But the flat mate is interesting. Maybe hiding something? And is he... is he growing attached?
1. Chapter 1

"No," Sherlock huffed, and he felt the draft as the door shut.

"Nope," the same action repeated.

"Next!"

"Sherlock, at least let them get in the bloody door," John smiled apologetically as another man retreated.

"But I don't need them to come through the door."

John sighed and opened the door again. A man in his early thirties stepped through, but Sherlock quickly dismissed him.

"You know there's only one person left out there, right? And I'm not doing this again next weekend. It's been three months, this is getting ridiculous."

"Fine. Name?" the detective replied, uncoiling his fingers.

"Micah Hawksworth. Twenty six, originally from Leeds, not education above A-levels, unemployed, freelance creative writer. Do you even want to bother?"

"Of course. Writers are always interesting," Sherlock cast a sly look upon John, "much more imaginative. Not boring."

John allowed the door to swing open and a woman stepped forward. With no instant dismissal, she made her way lightly into the room and perched on the sofa.

"You're Micah? Micah Hawksworth?" John enquired.

She nodded her reply.

"Oh... sorry... we were expecting a... umm..."

"Man?" she interrupted.

John nodded; Sherlock pressed his hands together under his chin and examined the woman.

_Auburn hair, hazel eyes, minimal make up, uncomfortable in her dress even though it's only casual, implies she's iffy with her feminine side. Flat shoes, opaque tights, indicates the same. Full figure, nothing obese but not exactly a dieter either. Shy, relatively guarded. Hippy parents, hence the name and her general demeanour but... _

"Why are you in London?" Sherlock demanded softly.

The woman, Micah, almost flinched. Sherlock repeated himself.

She shrugged, "convenience?"

Sherlock huffed.

He rose and skated across the room, taking the woman's hand in a formal shake.

"Sherlock Holmes, pleasure to meet you," he turned to John, "I'll take it."

"It?" both John and Micah said at the same time.

"Uh, her. Yes. Micah. Hmm."

"Excuse us for a second." John said gently to Micah as he tugged Sherlock into the hallway.

"I thought you only wanted a bloke?" he said quizzically to Sherlock.

"I said a man would be preferable. It was you who decided to exclude women from the interviews."

"Well she's here and you've said yes. Maybe you would've said yes three months ago if another chap had an ambiguous name."

"It's not the name, John."

"Then what... ah. Oh.. I see," he chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"You _like_ her."

"Oh, what? No, John, don't be silly."

"Perfectly pretty, seems pleasant. A lot less dangerous than your last infatuation..."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Well if it's not that, then what?

"Not boring." Sherlock said briefly, swooping himself back into the room and closing the door on John, who promptly left Baker St.

"So," Sherlock put on a grin, "tea, one sugar, right?"

Micah nodded, a little taken aback.

He clattered around the kitchen for a few moments. Micah winced as she heard the tumbling of a pan in the sink, the metal on metal, grinding her ear.

"You should get tat seen to," Sherlock murmured as placed the tea on the coffee table.

"Sorry?"

"Your wisdom tooth."

"But how...?"

Sherlock simply smiled and sat in his usual chair, tilted towards her.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

"Interview?" Micah finally pipped.

"Oh, no, I have what I needed. I'm sure you'll settle in nicely." Sherlock put on the grin again.

"But I don't even know what the rent..."

He cut her off, "oh, I'm sure we can arrange something later."

Micah nodded slowly, confused.

"There is one thing though..."

She looked up, and saw the man suddenly directly in front of her, towering.

"I'm about to head out and approximately three minutes later a black car will pull up outside. Don't struggle. And accept the money."

Sherlock swiftly took a small plastic bag from the fridge and left the building without a second look. As his cab turned the corner onto the man road, he took a glance in the rear view mirror. Sure enough, Mycroft's car was just pulling up.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh. Sherlock, I wasn't expecting you," Molly said, startled, as she entered the lab.

"Afternoon. Here, I need this x-raying," Sherlock handed her a plate with a two pence piece on.

"But it's..." she began to retaliate.

But it was Sherlock.

"Thank you." He quipped. He realised the note was a little harsh and pulled a smile up at the corner of his mouth.

They worked independently for a while, but a comfortable conversation started up.

"How's the hunt for the flat mate going?" Molly prodded gently.

"Found one."

So Sherlock was in a short answer mood today.

"Micah," he eventually elaborated.

Molly's ears pricked and Sherlock read her face.

"Nothing you'd be interested in, I promise."

"Oh..." she blushed, "I wasn't..."

"Definitely not your type," Sherlock contained his laugh.

There was a pause as Molly regained her composure.

"Sherlock, there's nothing on this." Molly resigned and removed the plate from the machine.

"Precisely!" Sherlock exclaimed, gathering it into a bag and depositing it in his pocket, "good bye, Molly."

Sherlock's coat billowed in the wind as he hailed his cab. Finally sitting alone he surveyed the information he had observed about his new flat mate. She was, quite frankly, boring. Just an average girl, slightly socially awkward, decent enough upbringing, parents still providing her with financial support. Nothing obvious, really. But why was she in London? What was convenience all about?

He reminisced to John's mothering that he really should get a flat mate. With the new baby he really couldn't be there all the time to help him around the flat. He needed something more than a skull to rage at. Someone to make sure he didn't slip... Sherlock sighed. John was right, of course, that's why he'd "reluctantly" agreed to put out the advert. Besides, he'd grown rather accustomed to having company, whatever he made out to Mycroft.

Back at the flat, he hauled himself in a ball on the sofa, having already taken Micah's lone suitcase upstairs. He'd collected it on the way home. She was already packed, which means she was either expecting approval or not planning to stay very long. Although neither option fitted with his current assessment of her.

A brief while later he heard the creek of the front door as Micah let herself in. Mycroft must have given her a key. She switched the light, making Sherlock cower from the brightness and flicked a cheque in his face.

"Your arrangement?"

"Well, that was intense," she breathed, flopping onto the end of the sofa where Sherlock's feet were a moment ago.

The man in question had sprung himself up to file the cheque, into his pocket as usual. He returned with a mug of tea for each of them.

"Well done," he said gently, sitting back down beside her.

"Your brother, right?"

Sherlock's eyebrows raised, "Yes... how could you tell?" he studied her.

She rolled her eyes, "You're _identical_," she half laughed.

He changed the subject.

"He knew I'd warned you, about him coming."

"Well yes. Black car pulling up and some burley bloke bundling me into it. Not screaming and running for my life? You'd either told me or I was a psychopath."

"We'll have to teach you to act."

"I can't lie," she shrugged, sinking into her seat.

"Lying and acting are different."

"...well, not really."

"Argumentative..." muttered Sherlock. Micah blushed.

Slowly, they both began to giggle. Just lightly, but not uncomfortably.

"You may as well change. Nothing fun happening tonight. Saturday evenings are always boring. Mind you, Sundays are monotonous. Drunken fights... blah."

"I'm sorry?"

"I took the liberty of collecting your bag. You're clearly not at home in that dress. And we're staying in." Sherlock repeated, slowly.

Micah looked him over, but didn't question him. She headed off in the direction she assumed her room would be, directed by a "left!" Sherlock called from the lounge.

Sherlock mentally noted how much more comfortable she was in loose leggings and a long top. She made no effort to hide the pouch of flab on her waist, which Sherlock, oddly enough, appreciated to some extent. She wore a puzzled expression and Sherlock averted his gaze from her figure, resting it on her face instead.

"You knew I would stay."

It was a statement, not a question.

"You're intrigued," he answered simply.

"What do you do?"

"I work with the police... sort of."

"Mycroft said you would say that."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm a consulting detective."

Micah nodded, as if she'd heard that before.

Sherlock sat on his haunches.

"Well?"

"Hmm?" she replied, absently.

"You haven't asked me the obvious yet."

She concealed a smirk, "oh, great one, how is it you identify x, y and z from just a look. Mycroft beat you there too. You should have stuck around longer this afternoon."

"But there's something else though. Spit it out, we don't have all night."

"But we're not going anywhere."

He glared.

"I saw you send away a dozen men before they'd even said a word. And then you chose me."

He observed her again.

"You don't read the papers, do you?"

She shook her head.

"Then let me explain, before Mycroft can take this one from me too. I Solve crimes for the police because they're incapable, owing to a mishap with a rival of mine I had to throw myself off a building, or at least pretend to, and then after travelling Europe for two years taking down his army, my brother called me back to stop and explosion. And then I shot a man, and then my rival is apparently back and then John had a baby and now I need a flat mate. Hi!"

"...you're the hat man."

"Yes."

They both grinned.


	3. Chapter 3

"What are you doing?" Sherlock enquired.

"Tying my laces?" Micah mused back.

"But you never wear boots. Where are you going?"

"I have a job interview. I told you on Tuesday."

"I was busy on Tuesday."

"You mean you weren't listening on Tuesday."

"Well, those happenings sort of coincide."

He sat down on the couch, knees to his chest, dejected.

"What?" she mumbled softly, becoming well acquainted with his mood swings.

"You don't need a job!"

She shot him a look.

"I have money! Mycroft has money."

"You need to do something interesting before Mycroft gives us money."

They both chuckled lightly.

"Well, come on then," Sherlock said slipping on his coat and handing Micah her navy mac.

"What?"

"We're going to go do something _interesting_."

He beamed a rare smile, John would recognise it as a triple murder kind of smile, but it was new to Micah. She liked it.

"Let me change..." she was wearing her interview dress.

"No," Sherlock interjected, "it's fitting. I like it."

"Not with this coat, at any rate," she took her denim jacket instead.

He smiled and offered his arm to her, a recent habit he'd developed just this last week or so. He liked the impression it gave off. He looked younger, more energetic, more approachable, somehow more respectable, with the young woman by his side. He was thankful Micah didn't take it as anything more than a means of restraining him from gallivanting off around London and leaving her in the street. She'd scowled at him for days after that.

Having lived together for nearly six weeks, they had settled well into a routine. Micah could sense Sherlock was becoming slightly more moody and miserable as he saw less and less of John. Mary had gone back to work and John had settled into night shifts to avoid putting the little one in day care. He saw his friend on weekends now, if that.

Sherlock was bored. Ridiculously bored. Lestrade was unwilling to give him any particularly significant cases for fear Moriarty would send another message. The lead had been completely lost after they found the broadcaster of the message hanging a week after the incident. They had just been waiting ever since. Sherlock wasn't good at waiting.

"I don't believe you've met my... ahem... colleagues."

Micah shot him a look as they climbed out of the cab. "Police?"

"Yep. _Interesting_."

She smiled, taking his arm again. She caught the hard glance he gave their connected limbs. He hadn't offered his arm, yet he didn't pull away.

"Sherlock."

"Lestrade."

"Friend?"

"Obviously."

The two men stood briefly, before Lestrade clapped his hand on Sherlock's back.

"You know I can't give you a case..."

"No. You want news. I can't give you news, only a theory."

"Go on?"

"I need all your unsolved murders for the past six months."

Sherlock grinned down at Micah as Lestrade turned his back.

The files were clumsily deposited on the coffee table back at the flat.

"Is this interesting enough?" Sherlock murmured quietly.

"Well, it's better than sitting around."

Sherlock began to pour his eyes over each of the paper wallets, grunting occasionally.

"There you go," Lestrade groaned as he brought the last box upstairs.

He glanced oddly at Micah and Sherlock, standing shoulder to shoulder.

"Ooh, Sherlock," Lestrade winked.

"What? What are you making that noise for?"

"Just... you. You two. You know."

Sherlock paused, briefly baffled.

"Oh come off it!" he exclaimed, almost horrified, "do you really think? No. I don't have time for that sort of rubbish."

Lestrade scoffed and Micah rolled her eyes. He was an odd man, Mr. Holmes. And older. She stifled a laugh.

"Augh, noises. Both of you. Stop thinking, it's annoying."

Lestrade spluttered slightly as well, until both of his friends were giggling.

"Stop it! What are you laughing at? There's nothing funny here!" Sherlock protested.

Sherlock bustled Lestrade through the door and turned, in his most dramatic manor, to Micah.

But now she was silent. She wasn't even there. In her place loomed one of Mycroft's many cronies, obvious by the tailoring, and she was crumpled on the floor, clearly drugged.

Why was everything so theatrical?


	4. Chapter 4

"Really, Mycroft, really?" Sherlock grumbled.

"Well, I had to make an impact, or you mightn't have bothered," the other man sneered.

"She's stirring," Anthea said calmly as she opened the door to Mycroft's hallway.

"What do you want, Mycoft?" Sherlock moaned.

"Show her this," Mycroft flicked a Polaroid from his jacket pocket.

Sherlock scrutinised the picture carefully. It was an image of a man dressed in an expensive but rather worn out suit. He hadn't shaved that day and there was an obvious tan line where his wedding band should have been. An obvious adulterer, concluded Sherlock. He struggled to read his brother's intentions, but could easily assume the man had something to do with Micah. He couldn't recall a time he'd known her be on a date, of any kind. The man's briefcase indicted he was either in business or politics, and considering Mycroft was involved, it was probably the latter. Obviously someone significant if whatever the man had done had reached Mycroft.

"Why is your little friend in London, brother?" Mycroft almost laughed as he led Sherlock to the room where Micah was just beginning to open her eyes.

Sherlock turned his back on his brother and walked briskly to his companion. She was just propping herself up on her elbow, and a nurse slid a pillow behind her, so she could relax.

"I'm sure your brother has a crush on me. Always whisking me away like this," Micah joked, but Sherlock could see the worry in her eyes.

He lightly traced his fingers through her hair and drew slowly, side to side, on the back of her neck until she rested her face into his torso. He'd done this once before, two weeks ago now, after she'd received a rejection letter from another job she'd applied for. The constant dejection had got to her, and Sherlock had returned from the lab to find his friend having a little weep.

"Lend me the beemer, Mycroft," Sherlock demanded half heartedly.

Mycroft huffed but didn't argue, tossing his keys.

"Can you stand?" he queried Micah, who nodded.

She slid out of the bed, using the side rail for support. Noticing her struggle for balance, Sherlock looped his arm around her waist, and they both ignored the awkward glances they were shooting around the room, and Sherlock especially had to shrug off Mycroft's smirk. They remained connected until he eventually deposited her in the passenger seat of Mycroft's nearly-new BMW saloon. Sherlock exhaled hastily as he closed the door, brushing himself off and settling from the semi-awkward closeness.

The evening was drawing in and they were still on the road from Mycroft's country mansion, and with Micah still suffering the effects of the sedatives, he figured it couldn't hurt to spend the night in an Inn. The owners of the Grey Horse that would be coming up in the next mile or so owed him a favour anyway. He would have asked Micah, but she was asleep. He rang the owners.

"Leon, hi, It's Sherlock Holmes here."

"Good evening Mr. Holmes," Leon said, rather nervously.

"You don't happen to have a twin or a pair of singles available for the night, do you?" It was his polite phone voice.

"Sorry sir, just a double I'm afraid. Easter holidays and all that."

Sherlock grumbled and sped past the pub.

"No matter. I'll call again another time."

He sighed as he disconnected his phone from the car's Bluetooth kit. There was still ninety minutes of driving and it was definitely dark now. Sherlock hated driving at any rate, yet in the dark and unable to play road games, it was truly miserable. Driving was so boring.

Eventually reaching Baker St, he decided Mycroft could afford a parking ticket so left the car right outside 221. Sherlock grumbled, noticing Micah was still sound asleep, though she would be fine in the morning when the sedatives had fully worn off. Still feeling he'd over stepped a line from earlier, he roused her.

"We're home." He said bluntly.

She made a light mumble.

"Micah, we're back at Baker St, I need you to wake up so we can go inside."

"Mmhmm..." the young woman lazily fumbled for her seat belt release, and Sherlock decided a little assistance wouldn't do any harm. She was unlikely to remember anything, anyway.

"Oh my, is she ok? What happened?" Mrs Hudson stuttered as Sherlock almost hauled a dizzy Micah through the front door, "Not been out partying, I hope? Though it is a little early. Bit of a light weight?"

"Nothing of the sort, Mrs. Hudson. Although some tea would do wonders, thankyou."

"Not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson tailed off as she headed into her own kitchenette.

Sherlock settled Micah on the sofa, covering her with a blanket as her head lolled on the cushion. He sighed, feeling a mixture of guilt and pride. He was sorry there'd been another incident with Mycroft, especially one that had incapacitated her, but just like John, she had taken the ordeal well. He missed his John dearly, but he accepted that change must come; it had been his own fault for dying, after all. Maybe Micah would be a suitable substitute, even just for the time being.

"You should stay with her, don't want her choking on her vomit, or anything," Mrs. Hudson said calmly as she left the tea tray on the table.

He acknowledged her comment with a strained smile and sat with Micah, who was barely managing to keep her eyes open.

She reached for his hand, obviously seeking out a reassurance John would never have felt comfortable with. Sherlock allowed her to sidle closer to him on the sofa as he sat down, and she rested her head against his chest. His arms fell around her soft curves in a strange manor that was beyond his control.

At least Mycroft wasn't there to watch as he brushed his lips across her forehead as she sank deeper into his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

It was earlier than usual when John left Mary nursing their daughter that Saturday morning. It had been two weeks since he'd seen Sherlock, and Greg had texted him that Sherlock had picked up a batch of unsolved murders, on the promise he had a theory. The poor bloke was obviously bored, and John missed solving cases with him. He'd only updated the blog once since the baby had been born.

He hadn't really seen much of Micah since she'd taken his old room at 221B, even though he'd been round numerous times in the first fortnight to make sure all was well. She seemed quiet, and tended to hide herself away in her room or go out whenever John was around, although he didn't take it as a personal offence. At least she seemed to get on as well with Sherlock as is possible, given the detective's mood swings.

John didn't bother knocking as he left himself into the flat, expecting Micah to be out of sight and Sherlock to be hunched over the kitchen table, on another one of his experiments. But the sight that greeted him was definitely out of the ordinary.

Sherlock lay on his side, facing the back of the sofa, covered in what John recognised as his quilt. There was nothing unusual about this. What was unusual was the leg that draped over Sherlock's hip that was attached to the small feminine figure Sherlock curled around. Micah. John blushed.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock spoke up just as John was turning to leave.

The detective prised himself out of Micah's clutch and rose. His hair was tussled and his silk shirt was creased. Though John didn't find the familiar signs in Sherlock's face that indicated he'd had a rough night's sleep. On the contrary, he appeared more refreshed than usual.

"Getting on well with the new flat mate then," John said bluntly.

Sherlock maintained his composure as he walked into the kitchen, John on his heels.

"So you move fast when I'm not around." John joked.

"Not you as well. She was sedated by Mycroft and his henchmen, I couldn't just leave her all night..."

"Did you cuddle me all those times I got knocked out?"

Sherlock started, but catching John's smirk, the two men broke into laughter.

"What's so funny?" came a muffled squeak from the couch.

John noted the instant shift in Sherlock's demeanour as the latter headed to where his companion lay and tentatively helped to ease her into a sitting position as she stretched. Not everything was strictly platonic, he could see, but not intimate either. The way they skated around each other convinced him that, being as socially impaired as the pair were, they hadn't really realised it either.

"I'll leave you two. I'm sure you have plenty to discuss," John wasn't put out.

"Oh, many things," Sherlock flashed Micah a look she didn't catch, "I'll call you tonight. Might need a medical opinion on one of these... cases."

"Right, sure, that's fine. Bye."

John let himself out and Sherlock joined Micah on the sofa, putting his serious face back on.

"What?" Micah smiled.

"My brother took you yesterday because he thinks you know something about a particular man. I am about to show you his picture and remember I will know if you are deceiving me. It is imperative you be honest with me, for your own safety, understood?"

Oh, right. That was a bit not good. Sherlock sensed he'd intimidated her and tried to assume a relaxed expression.

"If you're in danger, any trouble, I can help."

"I know. That's why you're convenient."

* * *

**So you've read this far, you must have an opinion one way or the other!**

**This is my first attempt at a Sherlock fic, and I've finally got a good plot idea going. Those first few chapters were just me... spilling my brain guts. **

**Also taking a poll on Watson baby name ideas! I have a shortlist of five, choose your fav!**

**Imogen, Melanie, Helen, Leila or Emmeline.**


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock slowly produced the Polaroid from his pocket and handed it to Micah, who held her breath.

"You know him," Sherlock confirmed.

Micah nodded.

"But not very well... Do you know his name?"

"He told me his name was Eric."

"But you don't believe that?"

"No, he never really responded to it."

"And what has he done?"

"He took something."

"From you?"

"...yes."

"You hesitated."

"It's a sensitive thing."

"Don't give me sensitive," Sherlock spat, before biting his tongue as Micah looked away, "I'm sorry," he cupped her chin and wiped the tear from her cheek.

Micah placed her hand on his and grasped it tightly. She reminded Sherlock of someone, something? She had a familiar expression. A loss and a longing and such love. A painful love.

A love only a mother could have. And a mother who...

"Oh," Sherlock deduced flatly.

"Eloquent," Micah half laughed, another tear falling.

"Not really my area of expertise," Sherlock shrugged, "but I will help you."

"Thank you, Sherlock, I really mean it," Micah was fully crying now

"Should I, erm, is this..." he leaned close to her and they rested together, his arm sliding around her, "yes, ok. Try not to worry."

They settled together on the sofa, Sherlock flicking some mindless chat show on the television. Micah had brightened, back to her usual self. And she'd said she couldn't act. Sherlock thought this over, but kept his theories to himself. Micah glanced at the boxes of murders Lestrade had brought yesterday.

"What are you thinking? With those?" she indicated the files.

"My Moriarty theory?"

"Mmhmm."

"I lied," he shot her a look, "I just wanted a case. They're all rather simply, actually. Cracked the lot while you were out of it. They're being collected before dinner. Lestrade's not an idiot, not really. He knew I had nothing."

"But you wanted John's help..."

"I still do. But with you."

"But I'm fine!"

"Relatively, yes. Just some... medical questions about the thing."

"Don't call it a thing..."

"You just called it an it."

She glared at him. Not good.

"Be subtle. I don't want anyone over hearing. You've kept it quiet for this long so you obviously know the risks."

"Mycroft knows..."

"I guessed that. Well, not guessed. I knew that. He just wanted to make sure we had the right girl," he pushed the hair out of her face, "and that we can trust you."

They sat silently, watching the show. Somehow their fingers had become intertwined. They'd both noticed it at some point, but it seemed ok to ignore it. It felt right, given the circumstances. As promised, Greg Lestrade visited the household at four that afternoon, and the pair broke away slightly.

Just slightly.

Not enough that Greg didn't give Sherlock another curious wink.

And not enough that Micah didn't blush when she caught that wink.

Sherlock shot off the couch, carrying a box down to Lestrade's car for him.

"Is that Mycroft's car?" Greg asked, semi suspicious.

"I had to borrow it."

"Double yellows, Sherlock."

He simply shrugged his reply.

"Are you sure you two aren't..."

"Positive, Lestrade. I didn't invite you over for a coffee and chat. And besides, even if we were, which we are _not_, it's really not that much of a big deal."

"Not that much of a big deal? Sherlock Holmes interacting at all is a big deal. Sherlock Holmes being _intimate_ is just a different story."

Sherlock sighed and turned away from the D.I.

"Look, mate, if there was anything you wanted to talk about, regarding that side of stuff, you can talk to me, ok?"

"I promise I won't need your advice, but thank you anyway."

"Figured I'd put the offer out there... Our friend Watson doesn't exactly have a fantastic choice in women, does he?"

"I like Mary," Sherlock said, slightly offended.

"She's an assassin!" Greg exclaimed, "Oh. You'd go for that, wouldn't you? At least Mya or whatever her name is keeps her clothes on."

Sherlock scoffed, "Micah."

"Sorry?"

"Her name, she's Micah."

"Bit of a funny name, don't you think."

Sherlock gave him a blank look. "You're talking to the king of funny names."

"Yes... right. Anyway, must be off."

* * *

**The next chapter really requires a baby Watson name, so I'd love it if you could leave a review with your favourite of the following: Imogen, Emmeline, Helen, Melanie or Leila. **


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